


Misstep

by TheGingerAvenger



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Possessive Behavior, featuring Martin's creepy fixation on his son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 18:57:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21020660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGingerAvenger/pseuds/TheGingerAvenger
Summary: As a rule, Malcolm was hyperaware of the line, even if it hadn’t been marked in vivid, warning red across the cell floor. But he was too distracted, mind too tangled in murders and deaths and killers, to notice when he drifted just a little too far into the cell.





	Misstep

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone else get creeped out whenever Martin calls Malcolm "my boy"? He's a creepy lil dude

As a rule, Malcolm was hyperaware of the line. Even before the new cell and the mark of vivid, warning red, he’d memorized the length of his father’s chain. Knew how far he could strain against its hold, accounted for the reach of his arms, and applied the knowledge to every one of their interactions. Always careful to keep the right amount of distance between them.

That knowledge had been ingrained in his head since he was a kid, during one of the first few visits to his father’s old cell. He had wandered too close, caught up in a yearning for a kind and loving father who hadn’t existed, and his father had wanted a hug.

Malcolm still couldn’t decide if the confused panic that had coiled tight and breathless in his chest had been because of the commotion that erupted afterward- yelling guards and hands tugging him away- or because of a deep fear of his dad trapping him against him. But he had been careful ever since.

But today was different.

A killer had been eluding the NYPD for the past few weeks, leaving a trail of grisly bodies behind them, and Malcolm could feel the familiar twist of panic and guilt beginning to wrap around his lungs, to settle violent shivers in his fingers and hands, because people were dying and he wasn’t good enough wasn’t smart enough it was his fault _how many people died before you called the police_ and he needed to do better be better-

And Martin had an idea.

Something to do with the research he had been conducting a few years ago. Something to do with how the killer was restraining their victims. Something to do with the books in his prison cell, Malcolm couldn’t remember the specifics. He had just clung to the hope, the idea like a drowning man. Desperation made fools out of everyone.

His father’s eyes focused unwaveringly on him before he even stepped into the cell, snagging on him through the windows. Unease skittered down his spine, clashing with the yearning that tugged at his chest. Shoving the confusing emotions down as far deep as they would go, he pulled up as thick a wall of indifference as he could. Malcolm stepped inside, a careful three steps away from the red line, as the door closed behind him. Martin stood in front of the bed, back straight, tension coiled tight in his shoulders and smile humorless under the unkempt beard. 

Martin didn't blink. "Hello, son." 

Malcolm should have known something was wrong then. Should have noticed the way Martin stood, posture rigid, shoulders held back, fingers clasped tight in front of him. Should have picked up on the way Martin’s voice sank lower than normal, devoid of the normal jovial warmth. A tone that hovered just above a restrained growl. The way his eyes settled on Malcolm like a heavy weight.

He should have known something was very wrong, but Malcolm just chalked the bad mood up to fifteen phone calls from Martin he had ignored the other day.

“Well? Where is this exciting new lead you wanted to show me?” Malcolm asked.

Martin didn’t acknowledge his waspish tone. Instead, he tilted his chin towards his desk, a barely-there movement, eyes never leaving Malcolm. “The book’s right there. I’m sure it will be more than enough to help you and your _team_.”

Malcolm frowned at him. A flash of anger twisted the word _team_ into something dark and disgusting, but Martin’s face remained impassive. Shaking off the small tinge of warning that pinged in the back of his head, Malcolm glanced at the desk. One of his father’s journals waited on the middle of the desk, perfectly innocent and mundane for something that so many lives rested on.

His eyes slid back to Martin and he grunted in annoyance when Martin didn’t make a move to move the book closer. He didn’t have time to play Martin’s weird games, not when some innocent person could turn up dead anytime soon. Curling his fingers into a fist to squash the tremors shivering across his skin, Malcolm moved towards the desk, unconsciously holding his breath.

He’d have to step over the red line to grab it, but it would be quick enough that the guards couldn’t protest, and Martin was over on the other side of the room by the bed. He would be fine. He would be fine.

If Malcolm had been thinking enough to add up the small details, he would have remembered walking past Ainsley and her cameraman at the scene of one of the killings, just a day ago. He would have remembered hesitating, sighing. Would have remembered the way Gil had stopped beside him, one hand cupping the back of Malcolm's neck, muttering assurances that they would catch the killer. He would have remembered smiling back at Gil, exhausted and worried, but grateful, all on the background of a live news program Martin watched religiously.

He would have remembered that even when Martin was nothing more than a loving father, he had never liked sharing things he believed were his.

Malcolm stepped over the line, focus so narrowed on the journal, that his mind didn’t register the flash of movement in his periphery, didn’t register the rattle of chains, until a hand clamped down around his outstretched wrist.

Malcolm’s shock was as quick and breathless as a snapped bone as Martin jerked him forward, twisting his wrist far enough that a sharp flare of pain made Malcolm gasp. Martin’s other hand tangled in Malcolm’s collar, jerking him close enough that he could feel Martin’s hot breath against his face, and Malcolm found himself staring wide-eyed into a pair of dark, angry eyes.

Martin’s grip on his wrist tightened into a bruise-like vase, lips peeling back from his teeth as he snarled, “You are _my son. MY SON._”

Martin shook him hard enough to make him gasp and Malcolm’s mind spun helplessly back to Edrisa, to the snake coiled around her thigh. To the brain’s ability to freeze the body when faced with danger. The logical part of him knew he could fight back. He was more than capable and strong enough to pull out of his father’s hold, but the other part of him, the confused child petrified of his father, could only stare in slow, all-consuming, mind-numbing horror. Martin’s face pressed too close, eyes wild and voice loud, booming shattering, grip growing tighter and tighter until his fingers ground bones.

Martin’s voice hissed knife sharp, loud enough to hear over commotion outside the cell, the sound of a guard shouting, demanding he step back now.

“Do you think anyone is going to stand beside you once they see what you are? Do you think that detective will still want you around? Have you told him about all that time you’re missing? How long it took you to call the police and how many people died before you did the right thing? He will kick you out. He will abandon you just like the FBI, just like everyone else, but I won’t. I will always be there because we’re the same and you-“

Rough hands separated them, grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back over the relative safety of that line. A broad-shouldered man in a white uniform stepped between them and cut Martin out of his sight, if not out of hearing, his shouts still snapping around the cell, still burrowing deep in Malcolm’s head. The trance snapped. His muscles slid from frozen to jelly in the space of a shuddering gasp.

Malcolm stumbled back until his shoulders hit the wall, vision swimming, narrowing, one hand cupping the wrist his father had snatched, barely feeling the way it throbbed. A face swam into view in front of him and Malcolm blinked a few times until he could focus on it. A guard. Eyebrows drawn, forehead creased, a gentle hand on his shoulder to guide him out of the cell. Vaguely, he heard the man ask if Malcolm was okay, if he needed medical attention. Martin was still shouting shouting shouting

_He’ll abandon you_

“I’m fine.” The words sounded distant and fuzzed even to Malcolm’s own ears, falling from numb lips. He swallowed and tried again, tried to force the shake from his voice. “I’m fine.”

The guard frowned like he didn’t believe him, lips parting to protest, but Malcolm didn’t care. Right then, the only thing he could think of was getting out, putting as much space between him and here as he possibly could. He pulled out of the guard’s hold fast enough to make himself dizzy and headed out the cell door.

The moment his shoe touched the floor outside the cell Martin’s voice shifted. In the middle of an enraged tirade, it slid from anger to pleasantness tinged with the barest note of desperation. Telling Malcolm to come back soon, he was always welcome to come back, anytime. Talk shop.

Any other time, Malcolm would have been delighted at the nervous timbre twining just under the surface of Martin’s voice. That he could pay Martin back, just a little, for the night terrors and the pain by making him think Malcolm was never coming back. That he would leave Martin to waste his days alone in a cage like he deserved.

But he couldn’t muster up any delight. Not with his father’s voice still hissing in his ears.

_They’ll all abandon you._

Hunching his shoulders up to his ears, Malcolm hurried out of the hospital, pace just under a sprint. He was used to being left out of groups, to being involved with people and relationships just long enough until they realized how cracked he was. Friendship was a fleeting thing that lasted a few days at best before people started pulling away. He thought he was used to that feeling, numb to being on the outskirts, but being part of Gil’s team was something he wanted badly enough to leave him terrified. He yearned for that unshakable sense of belonging he’d lost the moment he’d discovered the girl in that box.

He wanted Edrisa to enthusiastically tell him everything she discovered about a body. He wanted to see the way her entire face lit up when she started talking to him about something she was utterly fascinated by. He wanted to keep hearing JT’s dry jokes, wanted to keep getting under the other man’s skin just to see the way he rolled his eyes and tried to hide his smile. He wanted to be partners with Dani. Liked the way she cared about everyone, the way she always gravitated towards him whenever they were chasing a suspect.

And Gil . . .

Gil had never looked at him like he was a thing. Like he was other. Never treated him like he was someone just on the verge of becoming dangerous. A monster in the making. He treated Malcolm like a son. Like someone who could do some good in the world.

What would he think if he knew Malcolm hadn’t done the right thing? That he had waited, however long while however many people died under his father’s hands, before calling the police? How would any of them react?

_They’ll abandon you._

Malcolm stopped in the middle of the parking lot, the cold air burning his lungs and cheeks, and squeezed his eyes shut like that would stop Martin’s voice from careening around inside his head. His fingers curled into fists in his pockets, tight enough to dig his nails into the palm of his hand, stinging crescents of pain and the throbbing ache of his wrist anchoring him.

“They won’t,” he muttered. “They won’t, they won’t, they won’t.”

He repeated the words again and again to the empty air, like one of his affirmations, clinging to them. Trying to burn them into his mind, trying to force himself to _believe_ them.

“They won’t, they won’t, they won’t.”

But no matter how many times he said them, no matter how hard he tried, the words still left the bitter taste of a lie on his tongue.


End file.
